Sudoku
by robin daggers
Summary: It's a puzzle- some of the numbers are there, but most of it's blank. Robin feels like she's empty, and Barney feels emptier. All she knows is that she doesn't want to be pregnant with her ex husband's baby. He's telling the story like she's another number, but that's something she just can't ever be. /au. Robin is number 31.


A/N:/ (and it's a long 'un) I don't think anybody needs another post about how disgusting and insulting that finale was to the characters and fans. However, at some point, I probably will end up posting one. I've spent the past few weeks basically doing nothing but rant about the finale on tumblr. I can't describe- well, I can describe, and I've written a nigh on essay about it, but what they did to Robin. It killed me. It killed me even more than the swarkles break up (which was like running a knife through me repeatedly). Seeing them destroy everything about Robin's character, steal away all her happiness, make her a cold, disconnected, flake of a woman who doesn't care about her friends and is reduced to a desperate echo of her twenty year old self.

It hurt so much. I've been pretty much unable to even write fanfiction because I've just been angry, and crying, and considering giving up on all of my fics altogether.

I just want to let you know that this WON'T happen. I promise I'll finish 'no I'm not letting you go'. I have other fics planned, too. I'm writing a few fics that comply with the finale, just because I cannot stand the idea of swarkles not ending up together in any universe. It's the only way I'm going to have closure on the whole horrible 'Ellie' situation, and that's by showing Robin coming to bond with them. I have a few fics planned about a) how the t/r relationship would have spanned out (spoiler alert: terribly because she's longing to be loved again and he's in love with a memory- it screams healthy mutual relationship, huh) and b) swarkles getting back together. And this. I hated the number 31 plot. I hated it so much. I could probably write a book about how much I hated it, and that is NO exaggeration.

I know there are a lot of baby fics out there, including mine. And I know it's the cliché, it's a trope and there are so many brilliant ones out there already, and I know some people don't want there to be many new ones but…

I couldn't, just couldn't sit and deal with the number 31 plot. I simply could not. So if it must exist, this is how. Robin is 'number 31' (even though she was never just a number to him, and even though having an unnamed uterus provide Barney with 'redemption' in the form of a child she could never give him is unnerving and misogynistic). I'm not planning to spend ages on this fic, but I just really need it to exist. I've read one or two of a similar premise, but I felt like I had to write one of my own. And I know a lot of people are hurting over that finale, so I hope this might help to heal a few broken hearts. Even though this first chapter is sad, and a lot of the story is going to be sad and angsty too, simply because if this divorce has to have happened, it is damn well going to be realistic, and they are damn well going to be hurting over each other. Because in no universe would Robin Scherbatsky, who said she could NEVER box up their relationship, Robin who cries in secret and Robin who has a mourning period, just be 'over' her marriage in a few months. Then decide that she 'should have been with Ted'. No. She would not.

The time line of this is also going to be a bit weird. I'm aware that the no.31 happened in about 2019, but I'm going to have it happen right after the divorce (I considered having Robin hook up with him whilst in his perfect month, but it disgusted me too much so it's just going to have to happen this way.)

And one last thing. Even though I'm planning to write an awful lot of fix it fics, all fitting in with the pile of shit (I mean last forever [last time I'll be watching anything they've written, that's for sure]) I do NOT BELIEVE in that ending. It was an AU, it was like a really, really poorly executed t/r fanfiction. Frankly, I think I could have written a better t/r ending in about 4 minutes flat, and even thinking about t/r romantically makes me want to peel my skin off. But that is not the ending b/r deserved. That is not the ending Barney deserved. That is not the ending Robin deserved. It didn't make sense, it wasn't believable, and it will always be, to me, AU. In my mind, Barney and Robin stayed married. I'll admit I always loved the idea of them having a baby, but whether or not that happens doesn't really concern me anymore. All I know in my mind is that they love each other, and baby or no baby, they stay married. That, as Robin said, is a truth fact. I've started writing a set of future set drabbles (they normally warp out of hand into like 2,000 word drabbles, but anyway) which I intend to get round to publishing. I just want to do everything I can to give them the ending they deserved: which was their life together. Whether it be through this fic, or any of my others, I always want to give them the happy endgame they deserved. Together.

I promised myself this wouldn't get long, but it did. I'm really sorry about that. I'm sorry this note came off pretty angry, and Robin's narrative is probably pretty angry too. Thing is, there is literally no concern about getting any finale!verse fic out of character. They just invented a whole new set of characters, played by the same actors.

So I hope you enjoy. Sorry I disappeared off the face of the earth. I've been so overwhelmed by the lovely messages I've got from some of you- thankyou so, so, so much. I promise I will continue the fics I've started, especially ninlyg. I'm sorry for keeping you all waiting. I do have a lot of exams coming up, but I'll try my very best. And nothing is abandoned.

(And, eternally, swarkles lives).

* * *

One of the most irritating things about hotel rooms is the extreme inconsistency in quality of mirrors.

Some are large, set on intricate oak, placed strategically next to a dresser the size of a small boat. Others can only be located on the inside doors of wardrobes. Sometimes they are tiny, dust-covered things above a dingy sink, with an unhopeful chord that often fails to start a dim, rectangular lamp.

Robin once ended up in a hotel with mirrors surrounding each and every wall.

She went to that hotel with Barney the first time. He loved it- it was his favourite place they'd stayed in. He told her it was going to be awesome, so awesome, because now they could watch themselves having sex at every angle. He told her that probably some super weird dude came up with this design, and that it's probably the sort of thing Ted would do if Ted was even half as chiseled as himself. She'd snorted, caught between reproaching him for insulting their friend and erupting into the fit of giggles that he almost always sent her into.

The next time she returned to that hotel room, she was alone. It was in Moscow, she thinks. Or Morocco. Somewhere with an M, anyway. It ended with an 'O' sound for sure, because she remembers all the puns Barney kept making about bros.

It isn't fun when you're alone. It didn't seem as fun at all to look at herself in all those mirrors and see how fractured she looks. On the television, she appears so confident- totally assured of herself. From the fluency of her speech and her mannerisms, you could believe that she has the perfect life. _That_ woman, with her shiny stilettos, flawless sign off and crew of interns running around after her.

That woman who keeps achieving higher and higher, keeps soaring into the skies with success rather than stopping to deal with the parts of her insides that feel like they're breaking. Instead of thinking about the broken parts, about the loneliness, about the crippling reminder that she _failed as a damn wife_, she keeps moving on. She won't get sucked into some endless depression. She's looking to the future. She has to. So she doesn't go back, she doesn't visit, she doesn't even respond to the sea of messages from Lily, from Marshall, from Ted and from Tracy. She doesn't even know baby Penny, because she isn't Aunt Robin anymore. She isn't Robin Stinson, she isn't wife Robin, she isn't friend Robin… and no matter how many champagne toasts she gets thrown here at the office, marking promotion after promotion- she isn't happy.

This mirror is one of the most noncommittal she's seen in all of her travels. It is oval, with a thin lining of pale brown wood. Ted and Tracy would know what type. They probably have a whole scrapbook dedicated to their favourite types of wood. Ted could lecture her for about 5 straight ours about whatever mundane tree the mirror's foundations came from. Tracy, being Tracy, would listen, and love it, and most likely be equally involved.

And she wouldn't be. She'd poo poo it and tell Ted to shut up. She'd actually want him to shut up. Because whilst she could affectionately humour him for a while, about twenty minutes in, she'd completely have had enough. She just doesn't care about that stuff: it's dull, and it's douchey, and it's nerdy- and there are so many awesome things to be doing in the world. Why waste those hours talking about something so pointless?

Barney wouldn't rant. Barney would make some attempt at a dirty comment about wood, his words poorly strung together and followed by a low chuckle, and kisses parading up her neck towards her lips. Where he'd follow his sleazy words with a sweet, quiet 'I love you', so intimate that only she can ever know. It's almost to quiet for her to hear, but he knows that she does. She knows how much he means it, and she knows that he isn't just a pile of dirty jokes, and she knows that-

_She knows that he's her ex-husband_. Ex. As in- not anymore.

(As in, you lost your husband, Scherbatsky. You let him down. He wanted an exit ramp- an _exit ramp_. Whatever you were doing, it wasn't enough. He took an exit ramp, he took an exit ramp, he took an exit ramp from _our love _goddamnit-)

She rubs her eyes and applies her gaze to the mirror.

(Did she tell him to shut up when he joked around with her? Did she try to silence him when all he wanted was to make her smile? Did she tell him to shut up- was this her fault? In her head, over and over, over, and over, she tells herself that it's him, that he never would have settled down, that he never wanted a marriage, that he didn't try hard enough, that he cared about wifi more than her, that he never supported her career enough- but was it her? Could she be the problem here?)

Light is streaming in from the windows; it's about 4.58am and the sun is just about risen. Darts of soft orange and bright yellow light up the room and her view of her reflection. She has been standing there for about ten minutes now. She doesn't even know why. Well. Of course she knows why.

She positions herself at a slight angle, examining every part of her body meticulously.

Her legs look the same. Long and slender. She's developed an even, bronzed tan that accented her favourite part of her body perfectly. Her arms are much of the same too. Tanned, slim… she still has those little dents beneath her shoulder bone that had always jutted out. She refused to call them dimples, but Barney liked to tease her about them- both with his words and his tongue.

(Stop bringing him up. It's not like it's going to fix your divorce. That's right, Robin-Scherbatsky-World-Wide-News. You got divorced just like your mom and dad did. You're a broken marriage. Those vows you made? Nothing. It meant nothing. Every time you shared your body with him? Nothing. It's nothing now. Get your head around it. Move on. Move on because at least now you know it was nothing, right? Barnman and Robin- it was nothing. Nothing.)

She shakes herself, getting back to the task at hand.

Her problem is her abdomen.

Miraculously, her boobs seem to have nearly doubled within the last month or so. They now almost spill from the cups of her navy blue bra, plumper and perkier than ever. Barney wouldn't be able to get enough of them. He'd run his hands over them and he'd do that amazing thing where he-

(Stop it. Fucking stop it. Please, you know it only makes you cry when you think about it that much.)

She moves her hands down to her stomach. That is what she has an issue with.

It wasn't like she is eating any more than she normally does. Yes, perhaps she indulged herself here and there where she might not have before. So, okay, maybe she didn't need to try _everything_ at the buffet CNN threw for her last month. Maybe she had a few extra candy bars if they were offered to her on flights. And maybe some chips too. And nuts. Why not treat herself? She's working her butt off for this job, and it's not like she has anybody to see her naked. Who cares if she gains a few pounds? She's not trying to look sexy for anyone anymore. Of course, she still takes pride in her looks- but sexy isn't what she wants to be anymore. Sexy was how she felt with Barney, and she wants to feel as far from that as possible. She wants to disassociate herself entirely because-

(Stop. Stop thinking about him. Stop bringing him into everything.)

Still, she is a professional now. It is all about work, work, work. There isn't any time for relationships- or anything other than work, in fact. It is because she's tired; sometimes she would fine herself travelling so much she could barely regulate her sleep pattern at all. There had been one weekend where she genuinely didn't get a wink of sleep; there was a scandal going on in the East and she had to be everywhere, reporting, writing, digging for more information. Mealtimes didn't really happen anymore.

She feels quite sad eating alone, when she'd become so accustomed to sitting down for a meal most nights with Barney. Wine, a discussion about their day, legendary sex afterwards. Even if she was having an insanely grueling day of work and ended up too tired to make their dinner reservations, he'd just laugh, order up room service and have a picnic on their bed together.

(This is just getting irritating now. You've made your point. You can't stop thinking about him.)

She didn't want to ask her coworkers to eat with her. Most of them had established friendship groups already. In fact, a lot of people seemed to fear her; after all, she was the face of the company now. Maybe some of them resented her success (maybe she's over paranoid because it's all she has left, so damn it if anyone is going to steal her success).

Her eating is messed up, she'll admit. She isn't getting in balanced meals. It's mostly a mixture of alcohol and energy bars and whatever native cuisine she feels obliged to try by the hotel staff that all seem honored to have her staying there. When she does get to pick her own food, it's mostly junk. There isn't much left that doesn't remind her of Barney. Damn him for inventing that crazy challenge to try as many different dishes as they possibly could. It leaves her with very little scope.

It still doesn't explain the layer of pudge that has formed on her middle. Because that is not Robin Scherbatsky. Robin Scherbatsky does not overeat, she does not let herself go- and she does not try on her awesome new jeans and find that they barely zip up, then sit tragically analyzing her spiraling mental and physical health.

If she's logical about it, she's barely gained any weight at all. It only really looks like she's had a few tacos too many. Nothing to worry about, and barely even noticeable at all if she squints. To somebody who didn't know her, she still looks like her belly is flat. Except it isn't. She knows that it isn't, and she knows that she should be toned, and she knows that she feels practically pot bellied.

Recently, she's had some sort of flu. She can't quite pinpoint when it began, but she knows that it's sporadic and awful, and if it continues much longer than she won't be able to hide it from her boss. But the only possible merit of being hunched over a toiled for most of the early hours of the morning is that at least you lose weight, right?

Why, then, has the reverse happened? Regardless of the questionable vitamin content of her diet, she's probably been eating less than she would were she having 3 full meals a day. This past week has been spent running all over- literally chasing people for stories, ascending the 31 flights of stairs to her damn hotel room about 4 times a day, and that's not even going in to the fact that the lift is broken and she has to trek up another 16 flights to get to the studio they're broadcasting from.

All things considered, there is no explanation for the fact that she had to pour herself into her jeans.

She rubs her eyes again. The nervous habit is starting to cause her an actual problem: everything stings, and they're beginning to water. She needs to get a grip and stop it. With a glance back to the mirror, she realizes that they're red and puffy. She wonders what would happen if this was the image on all the posters.

Something lurches in her stomach. She realizes that it's that damn sick bug again. Her legs carry her to the bathroom. They don't even run, she's so used to all of this now that she simply strolls over, not entirely conscious of the situation. Her head feels clammy and the air is far, far too humid. Bile can be felt churning in her throat and before she knows it she's bent double, gripping the cold plastic rim of the toilet seat, eyes closed, bitterness on her tongue, body convulsing in a way she can't control. She's shaking, and the sound of herself heaving is enough to make her feel sick all over again.

By the time she is done, she feels herself on the verge of tears. There is vomit dribbling down her chin, and she feels disgust wave over herself. Her life has come to this. Trembling hands, hair wet and sticky because she hasn't got anyone to hold it back and massage her shoulders because that's what a spouse is for, and she went and pushed hers so far away that he practically sprinted down the exit ramp she offered.

(Can you not stop thinking about it?)

She shuts her eyes, she shuts herself off to the world and curls up on the bathroom mat. She tries to wipe her mouth with her hand, but now that's become equally disgusting. She wants to stand up, shower, clean herself off and go to work and forget all about this pity party. She wants to immerse herself in so much journalism that she doesn't have the time to think about what's really wrong.

Except she can't. The hollow, aching sensation at the pit of her stomach, combined with the sudden weakness in her legs and chill that has crept around her whole body means she can barely move. She's scared she's going to be sick again any second. Self awareness strikes, prompting her to realize that she's sat in her bra and panties. Blindly grabbing, she manages to yank a towel down from the radiator and pull it over herself as a sort of shawl. It's warm. Fluffy. It's white, so will probably stain, but at least she's mildly comfortable now. It smells of powder and fabric freshener.

But if she closes her eyes tighter than before, huddles herself into it and really, really, wishes- she can be back in 2013, with Barney's supportive arms around her, his soft breath on her neck and his legs tangled up with hers.

(What's the point of trying to get over him. He's your husband. He loved you for every single part of who you are and you managed to shove him down an exit ramp. He didn't run. You pushed him. You might as well have held a gun to his head and marched him away from this marriage. Hell, it's only been 3 months. 3 months, verses 3 years. It doesn't make sense. Not being with him doesn't make any sense. It feels like this is a horrible, horrible dream. It's a nightmare you made for yourself, Robin, just like you always do. The only thing you can commit to is making yourself miserable.)

"Shut _up."_ She sobs to herself.

She thinks she might be losing her mind.


End file.
